The Burdens of Being Functional
by Marston Chicklet
Summary: After Ron's accidental death, Snape is thrown into the middle of his family's grief.
1. Part 1

Notes: Originally written for RenitaLeandra on Livejournal (under the penname of SilburyGirl), in response to her request for Snape saving Hermione from becoming a recluse. I also wanted to incorporate the prompt of going away on a romantic weekend trip, but the entire Ministry decided to come along for the ride.

Thanks to thehalflie for the beta.

**The Burdens of Being Functional**

Perhaps it had something to do with living through one's own funeral, but since he had long since decided that the reason didn't matter, he had merely accepted the fact: Severus Snape loathed them. It certainly wasn't the unofficial dress code—he had enough black to make a career out of attending them—or the free, and usually edible, food. Hosts seemed to have no qualms about subjecting their guests to food poisoning at a dinner party, but it was unheard of to do the same when honouring the dead.

He liked to tell himself that it was the hypocrisy of the events that irritated him, but that didn't quite explain away his repulsion either. If he had been willing to be honest, he might have uncovered the true reason, but, despite over three decades out of the trade, he was still a spy at heart and not above deception.

The night before this particular funeral, he was laying out his neatly pressed robes with more care than usual, sipping a glass of wine and half-listening to the Latin jazz that Hermione continually insisted he would like if he would only give it half a chance, as he tried not to contemplate the future or, for that matter, the past. It was a delicate balancing act and he was failing miserably at it.

Another sip of wine—he closed his eyes and let the spice of the Shiraz sit on his tongue, mingling with the faint scent of woodsmoke coming from the fireplace.

This death was one that he did care about, if not for his own bleeding heart, then for Hermione's. He had grown to like the man well enough—out of necessity more than compatibility, but it had been genuine in the end—yet what he felt wasn't true grief. Not in the face of what Hermione must be experiencing; not even by his own standards. There was sorrow and worry and empathy that nearly made his heart stop, but none of it had to do with his relationship with Ronald Weasley.

He had been just about to give up and spend the remainder of the evening in his armchair, feeling the warmth of the crackling fire toast his hands as he flipped through a book—the book that he'd been saving up for such an occasion, one where he wanted to slip away for a time and forget himself—when the knocking began. With a reluctant glance at his crackling fire, he finished smoothing out the creases in tomorrow's robes and opened the door to a drenched but otherwise calm Hugo Weasley.

"You need to come with me," he said, stepping inside without invitation, or regard for Severus' wish to keep his floor dry. "She hasn't left her room all day."

"Do you need—"

"No, just come."

It didn't occur to him until his coat was on and he was in the midst of Apparition that he realised he had left the fire burning in the grate—given his luck, a spark would have landed on the rug already and the entire house would be up in flames. For a horrible moment he felt the odd stretching sensation that came with splinching, but it passed when remembered having the good sense to purchase full-coverage insurance righted that, and he landed, whole, at the front door.

* * *

The suitcase was flung half-open on the bed, half full although she hadn't added anything to it in hours, not since the initial determination to bolt rather than face tomorrow's service had faded to a dull sense of worry. Instead of the earlier frantic energy, she was collapsed on the floor next to the bed, sliding her bare feet against the smooth hardwood and clutching a framed photograph tightly enough that it was a minor miracle that the glass didn't break. Tracing the outline of Ron's face, she tried to feel something—grief, loss, physical pain, _anything_—other than the coolness of a glass frame and the overwhelming incurable emptiness that existed in a room she had once shared.

She wasn't sure that she knew how to cry, even; it felt as though instinct had been shut off, numbing her senses until she was no longer sure if the periodic thudding in the background was someone knocking at the door or an imagined presence to fill the silence.

* * *

Rose was curled up on the sofa, her head buried in Celeste's shoulder. She glanced up when Severus entered—barely more than a twitch of acknowledgement, but it was enough to show him her stricken face. Celeste disentangled herself and stood, running a hand through spiky blond hair before wrapping him in a hug that he supposed ought to have been comforting.

He let her, inhaling the scents that lingered in her hair and labelling them automatically: patchouli, sweat, and a hint of sandalwood—that was Rose's perfume—that lifted off of her like incense. Allowing himself to be comforted by someone so much younger—the daughter of his former students, and young enough to be a granddaughter—was strange; he sank into the embrace, trying to breathe all his terror into the itchy, hostile wool of her jumper.

Even now, he was amazed that Malcolm Baddock and Luna Lovegood had somehow managed to raise a solid, practical daughter, but even she was trembling and uncertain. She had only held together long enough to help with the funeral arrangements, but she was now an outsider, forced to hold the grief of others above her own. He understood all too well how she felt.

"Thank you for coming," she whispered, voice breaking, before she returned to Rose, who clung to her more tightly than before.

"Where is she?" He sounded more terrified, less certain than he would like—a result, no doubt, of the way that his chest had tightened as soon as he had arrived.

"Upstairs," Hugo said, coming up behind him, "but she won't let you in."

"There's not much point in being here if I don't try."

* * *

"I've made up the spare room for you, if you'd prefer to sleep there."

It was well past two in the morning, and he had finally, against his better judgement, forced his way into the bedroom.

Instead of being greeted with anger, she had looked up at him with exhausted resignation that terrified him more than the prospect of her wrath, which was quickly replaced by gratitude when he led her to the spare bedroom. Sleeping alone in the bed she had shared with Ron would be too much to ask, especially on only the second night.

She clutched his hand as he hauled her to his feet, blushing as he raised his eyebrows at the sight of her suitcase. "I thought about making a run for it rather than facing them tomorrow," she said. The moonlight cast shadows across her face, accentuating the lines that had gradually etched themselves across her face over the course of the last ten years. He hadn't noticed them until now. "I couldn't do it—I thought of the kids trying to go it alone..."

"And what Molly would do to you the next time she saw you," he added.

Her smile was weak, but at least it was there. "That too. Still, the fact that I even thought it..."

Waving her into the corridor, in the direction of the spare bedroom, he told her, "Nobody likes funerals, but that's not the point. The point is that you _didn't_ bolt."

She followed the direction of his pointing finger and crawled into the bed. "True. I just don't want to be like Dad was after Mum died—"

"I know."

As he tucked the blankets tightly around her, it struck him that she looked more like the scared first year he had first seen her as than the confident and successful woman that she had grown into. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hand on her forehead until he was certain she was asleep, then crept downstairs to Celeste and a waiting cup of tea.

"Is she going to be all right?"

His gaze met her wide blue eyes that didn't seem to be dimmed by the poorly lit kitchen and he saw his own thoughts reflected in them; it was probably projection, but he would take his comfort where he could find it. He snorted. "She's Hermione. Of course she will, she just needs time."

Celeste gave him a small smile. "I'm more worried about Rose—you know how she gets, but she'll be better after a proper night of sleep."

He did know, but of course she was more worried about Rose. It was for the same reason his stomach clenched into a fist at the thought of Hermione alone. "And Hugo is perfectly fine, naturally."

The tea was fragrant and managed to warm the numb places; he sipped it eagerly, barely noticing when he burnt his tongue.

"Aside from the fact that he's just lost his father in a freak accident, yes, but then he always is."

"And, you?" Severus inclined his head forward, genuinely concerned. If she broke down, he would be the only one in the mess who kept his head about him.

Celeste grimaced, taking her time slurping the tea before she answered. "Ronald didn't like me," she said, "and I thought he was a temperamental prick with the twiggy end of a broomstick shoved up his arse, so I'm only concerned because Rose is involved. I'm not pleased that he's dead; I reckon that I'd feel the same way if he went on permanent holiday to Rio."

Severus smirked. "Well, I wasn't about to say it..."

"My mother values honesty," Celeste added. "I know that we ought to treat the dead with kindness, but, Christ, Voldemort's dead, and nobody's talking about his high points."

"I don't think that there is enough similarity to draw an accurate comparison." His verbosity always increased exponentially with his irritation.

She flushed, and he felt momentarily guilty; obviously he was going soft in his old age. "Sorry—I always forget."

"I wish that I could." Absently, his hand strayed to his collar and he imagined that he felt the scarred flesh twinge.

"I am tremendously glad that you're here," she said, as if to add to her apology. "I don't know that I could handle all three of them on my own."

Leaning back in the chair, he clung to his mug and closed his eyes against his imagined onslaught of grieving Weasleys. "Just wait until tomorrow."

* * *

Upstairs, Hermione hadn't stayed in bed much longer than Severus had remained in the room with her.

She had curled up on the window seat and now had her nose pressed to the glass, watching the rain stream past on the other side without really seeing anything. The first stabbings of grief were registering—small, but still painful—and she welcomed them with the relief that accompanied the knowledge she wasn't heartless after all, as her mind turned to memory.

There was a touch of guilt mingled in when the first memory that rose to mind wasn't of Ron, but let it pass. There was hardly any part of her life after the age of eleven that hadn't related to Ron in some way.

* * *

The morning of her first Ministry retreat was bright and cheery, but Hermione had decided to have none of it. No one had remembered to include sugar as part of the condiment stand, so her coffee was milky but still bitter—and not even the satisfying bitterness of proper coffee, but the staleness that came from being pre-ground and in a tin—and nearly made her choke. Padma Patil stood next to her, muttering bitterly about people who hadn't yet learnt the power of the spreadsheet when it came to organising events, and Hermione nodded along in fervent agreement.

If she was going to have to wake before four to be Portkeyed to some secret location in the untamed wilderness to learn team-building exercises, there better damn well be coffee and it better damn well be good.

Of course, there were few places in Suffolk that could be considered true wilderness, but, she thought eyeing the cluster of cottages into which two hundred Ministry employees were supposed to fit, this seemed to be close enough. Her grip around the Styrofoam cup tightened until it cracked, and she was forced to watch her last tie to modernity crumble before her very eyes.

Next to her, Padma grabbed hold of her arm and said, "It's official. Someone needs to lock Percy in the depths of the Malfoy dungeons with Bellatrix Lestrange for the next century. I thought the counsellor that he hired to go round to each department was bad, but this is truly his greatest achievement to date. Shacklebolt needs to start vetting his evil schemes."

"How do you know that this wasn't Kingsley's idea?" The words sounded foolish even to her own ears; Percy was the only person she had met who thought retreats were a good idea.

Padma scowled darkly. "I interned under Percy my first summer in the Ministry—trust me, I can smell his brilliance long before his flaming hair comes into view. Don't worry; it's a skill that you will learn in time."

"I look forward to it," Hermione muttered. "It'll mean that I know when to run."

Padma's expression turned grave. "He always catches you in the end. Anyway, just think of all the fun we can have getting the Unspeakables drunk, and then convincing them that they told us their top secret assignments. We'll have them buying us lattés for months. It's flawless."

"Except for the part about how we're going to get into an Unspeakable party."

"Thought of that," Padma said, picking up her duffel bag and flouncing toward their assigned cabin. "You just need to think like they do. It required an in-depth psychological study on my part to work out what those sort find a convincing lie."

With a sigh, Hermione followed the other girl, displeased with the fact that her suitcase's wheels didn't work on uneven terrain. "And that would be?"

"My dear," Padma announced with a grand flourish of her hand, "this weekend we will be so Unspeakable that our fellow Unspeakables have never heard of us."

"In that case, you may want to stop speaking about it," Hermione said, pointedly looking at the group of people who were staring at her theatrics with suspicion.

* * *

Hermione had been shocked, to make a gross understatement, when the ploy worked and she found herself in the magically expanded cottage assigned to the Unspeakables. Padma had been applying her considerable intellect to infiltrating the Department of Mysteries without actually transferring there for the previous year and a half, and none of her mad schemes had worked thus far. The closest that she had come was a short-lived romance—consisting of half a dinner—with the department head, but even Padma had been forced to admit that even breaking into Wizarding Britain's most secret organisation wasn't worth an entire date with Dedalus Diggle.

Padma had later remarked that anyone who had a top hat that willing to pop off without warning wouldn't last two minutes, anyway.

Still, as Hermione sipped her champagne—Unspeakables appeared to be very fond of champagne, if the self-filling flutes and fountain in the middle of the common area were any indicator—she had to admire the determination that had landed them in the heart of the Department of Mysteries, well away from the cheap ale that was being passed around Magical Law Enforcement party.

And, she thought, perhaps a bit tipsily as she savoured the fruity flavour of her drink, they certainly weren't cheap about which bubbly either.

The world had just started to take on a pleasantly hazy glow when she was accosted from behind by a perfectly toned blond man, who might have been attractive except for the squashed-in look of his face. Whether he meant to place an arm around her shoulders or whether he had merely decided that she was the most conveniently located object onto which to collapse, she didn't know, but he did greet her breasts rather too enthusiastically for it to be born of pure intent.

"I don't remember seeing _you _around the department," he said, his words slurring enough to remind her why beverages that topped themselves up at will weren't always the best idea.

"I usually wear a turtleneck."

He peered blearily up from an angle that could only result in a prime view of the depths of her nostrils. "Or you."

"That's alright, then, because you probably won't remember tonight either," she replied, attempting to disentangle herself from his grasp. He clung on with the strength of drunken desperation.

"No, wait! I'm sorry! Won't you be my friend? I promise I'll remember your name!"

Remembering Padma's remark about free lattés, she stopped fighting and smiled at him encouragingly. "Of course. But why don't you remind me of yours first."

* * *

She still remembered the moment of shock that she had experienced when she found herself being dragged—mostly because walking had suddenly become improbable in her inebriated state—out of an Unspeakable party—which was something one only attended if they didn't mind being Obliviated after the fact, a clear flaw in Padma's plan—by a man whom, until about five minutes ago, she had assumed to be dead. The twenty-odd minutes before that point had involved trying to swab his throat with her tongue.

Clearly she was trying to correct her misspent youth by carpe diem-ing it up now; she had known that the period of time in the Forest of the Dean was a mistake. Perhaps her parents' offer to pay for therapy was not as repulsive as it had initially sounded.

"I'm an Unspeakable, I swear!" she said, attempting to wrench her arm free in protest. She succeeded, but it was merely a symbolic victory because it left her face-down in the grass.

"Which is why I run the Department of Mysteries, yet have never seen you report to me."

"I'm so secret that I can't report to you. It would look suspicious. I only report to Kingsley."

He offered a hand to help her up, which she accepted gratefully, if not gracefully. Now that she was once again upright, she might be able to make a run for it.

As he let go, she began to sway. Right, so maybe he did have something worth saying after all. Hearing him out would only be polite. Naturally.

"And you can't possibly be department head—Diggle is! Besides, there's no precedent for letting dead people run things." She was pleased with herself for catching him in his lie; she'd have to drink more frequently as it clearly improved her thought processes.

"Obviously I am _not_ dead"—this was evidently a sore spot—"and do you honestly think that the head of the Department of _Mysteries_' name is going to be common knowledge?"

He had a point. "I still don't believe you."

"And I don't care. Goodnight, Miss Granger. Kindly stay away from my underlings."

* * *

That might have been the last she saw of him, except for the fact that they had to stay for the rest of the weekend. Saturday dawned bright and clear, reminding Hermione precisely why she hated nature. The combination of skylarks filling the air with their glorious songs and too much to drink the night before was taking its toll.

The use of the term 'seminar', she had decided within minutes of sitting down with her notepad, was a prime example of modern abuse of the English language. She was a firm believer in lecture halls with overhead projectors; this was mutually exclusive to sitting cross-legged in a field performing exercises that would help her develop a trusting relationship with her coworkers. It was entirely possible that Padma felt the same way, but her expression was rendered unreadable by the large sunglasses that she wore to hide her bloodshot eyes.

"Any luck last night?" she asked, voice hoarse.

"Well," Hermione said, "I met someone named Evan Danielson who wanted to be my best friend, and then proceeded to tell me about his current work with displaced trolls in Siberia. Apparently he gets three death threats a day."

"All that secrecy for _trolls_? You've got to be joking."

"Perhaps it's Freudian? Anyway, turns out that Snape is alive and in charge of the department. I think. I'd had a lot of champagne at that point."

Padma braved the unforgiving rays of sunlight to peer over her sunglasses in shock, hunting for words. After a moment, she sighed weakly and said, "I suppose that explains why Diggle was so bloody useless."

* * *

She had decided that her curiosity would _not_ get the better of her, and had even made it through another two chapters of _Advanced Potions for Practical Use _before bringing herself to admit that her resolve had been entirely in vain. In the part of her brain that believed in being honest with herself, she had known all along that she would seek him out.

This time, however, she would avoid the champagne—the throbbing headache of the morning was still fresh in her mind—and cut straight to finding Severus Snape and some answers. Short of him sleeping with Kingsley—and the sex being exceptional—she could think of few reasons why his secret had been kept so well.

Severus Snape was evidently not a party person; he didn't even succeed at being a wallflower. He was the sort to loom in corners, scowling over the top of a book. How he managed to loom when he was sitting down and not the towering figure that she recalled, she wasn't sure.

He hadn't aged much since she had last seen him, although, to be fair, the last time she had seen him, excluding the night before, had been when he was dead—or, apparently, not quite dead—on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, so he was bound to look better. There were streaks of grey in his hair and the harsh lines around his mouth certainly hadn't lessened, but his shoulders weren't bunched up around his ears and he seemed less wary: his gaze lifted from the page to glance at his surroundings, but there wasn't any real concern in the gesture.

"I'm sober this time," she said, plopping next to him on the sofa, "and you have a great many questions to answer." She had to shout the last bit, having found herself being drowned out by the sudden, screeching onset of someone playing a Weird Sisters album.

"You have utterly failed to convince me of both," he replied without glancing up. Somehow his voice managed to cut through the din without any effort on his part, which made her loathe him that much more.

A response burned on her tongue, and she opened her mouth to let it out when someone tripped over her ankle on his way by. A blond, vaguely familiar someone, who had his arm wrapped around a smirking Padma.

"Hermione!"

Apparently he had been less sloshed than she had suspected, and did remember her name. It was one less thing that she would have to worry about explaining when the time came to collect her bribes. "Hello, Evan," she said, trying to suppress a grin. Next to her, Snape snorted.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Padma looked far too pleased with her catch, but that changed rapidly when she noticed who was to Hermione's right. She pointed at Snape in shock, who had yet to look up from the pages of his book.

She nodded in response, waiting until Evan wasn't looking to mouth 'good luck' in her direction. Padma winked back before leading the man away into the crowd of dancers, letting Hermione turn back to Snape.

With a prod to make sure she had his attention, she leaned close to his ear. "Why are you out here if you want to be left alone?"

With a heavy sigh, he marked his place with a finger and set the book in his lap. She caught sight of the title—_Advanced Potions for Practical Use_—and smirked. "You aren't going away, are you?"

"That has nothing to do with what I just asked, but no, I had no plans to. Why sit out here when you obviously want to be left alone?"

"Because, Miss Granger, I suspect that there are youthful miscreants shagging in my bunk right now, and there isn't a quiet place in the building."

A quick survey around the room and a moment of introspection told her all that she needed to know about the situation. Snape had a book. Snape was being forced to sit through horrendous music and drunken idiocy in order to read it. Snape had information that she wanted. The MLE cottage was deserted because they had been invited to the Auror party.

It was perfect.

"My room is quiet," she told him, enjoying the array of emotions that flitted across his face. Hope and horror were among them.

"I realise that you've in all likelihood had more to drink than is advisable and that this seems like a good idea, but I'm not interested in sleeping with an ex-student."

"Which is fine with me, because I'm not interested in sleeping with an ex-professor—I thought you might like to read without interruption. And I told you that I haven't been drinking."

He caught sight of her grin and his frown deepened before the line of his mouth relaxed into resignation. "If I answer your questions."

"Of course."

"You really ought to work on your subtlety." He smoothed the front of his robes, and shrugged.

"Why bother when this works so well?"

* * *

The next morning, Severus found her curled up on the window, her head tilted awkwardly as though she had fallen asleep with her face pressed against the pane. The rain had let up hardly an hour before, but the light cast across her face was weakened by the clouds. He let her sleep for another few minutes, watching with a distant fascination as her breath fogged the glass, remembering the half-filled suitcase in her bedroom and wondering if she had really meant to make a run for it. After Celeste had joined bed, he had slipped into her room and closed the lie, stowing it under the bed so that the others wouldn't see. They had enough to worry about, without having to be concerned about Hermione; that would be his job.

He straightened the bedclothes, remembering the first time he had found himself in Hermione's room. She had been sharing it with three other people at the time, and it smelt of old socks and spilt alcohol, but her corner had been immaculately tidied and sprayed with air freshener, so that it was bearable. He recalled how she had curled up on Padma Patil's bed so that he could sit on hers, and feeling pleasure spread through him as he noticed that they were reading the same book. Suddenly the next chapter hadn't been nearly as important as uncovering her thoughts.

The pillows fluffed, he turned his attention to waking Hermione, something that he wasn't looking forward to—less because of her reaction than because he didn't want to see the return of grief as she recalled where she was and what had happened. He knew all too well the wondrous forgetfulness of sleep.

The scent of fried kippers wafted up the stairs, and, in spite of his general dislike of kippers, he a stab of hunger that reminded him he had skipped dinner. Hugo and Rose's bickering carried up the stairs, punctuated every so often by a sharp remark from Celeste, almost loud enough that it would wake Hermione without his interference. He couldn't decide which would be worse, so he leaned down and shook her shoulder gently, pulling her from sleep.

Bleary eyes peered through sleep-coated lashes as she reached up to massage her neck and the beginnings of a smile twitched at the corners of her lips. His heart dropped into his stomach as he waited for the moment when she would suddenly no longer be glad to see him.

It came midway through a yawn; her entire body seemed to seize and the light vanished from her eyes. His heart returned to his ribcage, where it belonged, but it was slightly more sluggish than it had been, as though some of the beat had been left behind.


	2. Part 2

**Notes:** I received a bit of crit on this bit when it was first posted that I strongly agreed with, but, after much wibbling, have decided not to make the change... Feel free to play the guessing game.

As always, I thank thehalflie for her time and patience in putting up with my and my scribbles.

After a nerve-wracking morning, the funeral almost came as a relief. Severus had spent it watching Hermione harden over, weaving control around herself until she had a shield that could almost pass for normal. If her eyes glittered a bit more than usual, and she held herself so rigidly that he thought she might snap, he wasn't about to remark on it; at least she was trying. From his seat in the back pew, he could see her staring directly in front of her, eyes dry and empty. Her hand slid up and down Hugo's back in an absent gesture of comfort and he drew nearer to his mother, settling against her shoulder. On Hermione's other side, Molly dabbed at her eyes as Arthur's eulogy brought on new waves of grief.

There hadn't been enough left of the body to have an open-casket—the awry spell had ensured that—which was a small comfort. He recalled the service for his mother—the memory of her absolute stillness and the groomed features that had been so washed-out in life was enough to make him shudder. That had been the first time he had seen what she must have looked like before the abuses and disappointments of life had covered her face in a thin film that refused be scrubbed off. Even then, he hadn't thought her beautiful, but it had seemed to him that she looked serene, in a way that she had never seemed in life.

Before then, he had never felt tempted to believe in an afterlife; the sudden thought that his mother was happier dead made him wish that the the possibility had never occurred to him. The ornate urn on display, surrounded by bouquets of fragrant flowers charmed against wilting, made the service more bearable. Ashes couldn't sit up without warning, irrefutably announcing a false diagnosis.

The blinding flash of a camera as the speech ended forced his eyes away from the grieving family to the far side of the room, where a _Daily Prophet _reporter crouched, scribbling notes and directing his photographer. Severus didn't need to wait to know what would be printed the next morning; Hermione's constant refusal to court the press had made her unpopular, and the complete lack of expression on her face would easily remain fodder for months to come.

* * *

She hadn't heard a word of the eulogy. If she had allowed herself to absorb the words, let the full weight of them sink in, she wouldn't be able to maintain her facade long enough to avoid a public breakdown. As it was, she had to clutch her purse to mask the shaking of her hands, and allow her son to guide her away from the pew and past the urn, placing a single stem of orchids—Ron had been allergic to roses, so it seemed foolish to remember him with them—before it.

Her chest tightened as Hugo held the door open for her, and her vision was momentarily flooded by sunlight.

_What's the worst that can happen?_ she remembered Ron asking her, challenging her at the memorial service for her mother. _If you cry, it'll only make them think you're human._

But she hadn't wanted to be human that day, just as she wasn't certain she wanted to now. She wanted to transcend her grief, even if only for the moment, and hover above this disaster until someone else stepped in and swept it up. If she allowed herself to be caught up in it, she might not be able to move on.

A second passed where she believed that it was possible—a glorious second where she was suddenly free to breathe as she returned to the numbness of the previous night—but the sight of Celeste twining her hand into Rose's and whispering something that made her smile—no, not smile, _laugh_—even as tears glittered on her cheeks, brought her crashing down to earth. She no longer had someone to tease smiles out of her with inappropriate and usually offensive jokes. She might never have that again.

The heel of her shoe caught on the step, and she felt someone grab her elbow to steady her. The whiff of cologne told her that it was Severus before he opened his mouth to ask if she was all right, even before she turned her head to thank him.

"Just a few more hours, and then you can go home and wallow," he told her. "You've sat through much longer Ministry meetings without flinching, and those are pretty awful."

The corners of her mouth twitched in spite of herself. "That's true."

"And at least there will be food at the Burrow."

She wasn't hungry in the least, but she nodded her agreement anyway.

"You may also want to consider finding a handkerchief and dabbing your eyes with it every so often. The reporters are starting to get a nasty gleam in their eyes that can only mean bad things."

"Like comparing me to a preying mantis? I may have slightly bulbous eyes, bit last time I checked, I wasn't a cannibal." The sharpness in her tone frightened her—she hadn't wanted to snap at him—but the patience in his expression was infuriating.

"I know that, but they don't."

She had to admit that he had a point. "Can I borrow yours, then?"

With a heavy sigh that suggested he suspected what she was about to do, he held his handkerchief out and tightened his lips—she was unsure whether it was a smile or a grimace—as she made a show of blowing her nose and offered it back to him. "You can keep it if you like," he said. "You might need it again."

"That takes what little joy I could manage to feel out of this situation." It hadn't; their verbal sparring was making her feel slightly more cheerful.

His hand tightened on her arm again, and looked at him sharply. His face had become visibly tense as he stared at a spot somewhere past her right shoulder, and a stab of guilt hit her as she contemplated her glib statement.

"Will you be all right Apparating?" he asked, and relief washed over her. She had nearly left part of her kneecap behind that morning.

"Would you mind if I came side-along? I don't know if I'm quite up to it."

* * *

The first time that he had made her laugh had been when he explained the miracle of his survival. He had remarked dryly on the Aurors, who had managed to be in the right place at the right time for what was possibly the first time since the department had been created, and felt a strange fizz of _something_ when she tossed her head back and a surprisingly deep, throaty sound burst out. Even when she was no longer laughing, her eyes had danced, teasing him with the idea that he could be entertaining and witty.

So he had made another joke—weak, but she had humoured him—and another, and then another after that, until both of them had slid off of the beds, shaking and gasping for breath in the face of abdominal pain. He had been filled with the sudden urge to keep her laughing, as though it would somehow chase away the snake-infested nightmares that still haunted him three years after the fact.

When she caught her breath, she said, "So, things have certainly improved for you, then. I don't remember ever seeing you crack a smile before now."

"The wonders of working for someone who doesn't expect one to kill people for his sake."

The wry twist of her mouth told him that she understood the double meaning of the statement. "I thought that was part of what Unspeakables did."

He snorted. "Kill people? Trust me, it's far more mundane than that."

"But you still can't tell me?"

"Not in specific terms, no."

"Broad ones?" Her eyes were hopeful, and even though she had already told him that the attempted infiltration of his department was the Patil girl's idea, he realised that she had gone along with the plan wholeheartedly.

In spite of his better judgement, which was reminding him about things like remaining employed and paying bills, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "I trust that this won't make it past you?"

"I can be discreet occasionally."

"I'm sure that you can."

"Are you planning to tell me, or will you just keep taunting me with the information?"

The brightness in her eyes taunted him, teasing him with the prospect of another laugh. With that possibility in mind there were few options. "It's research," he said. "The other departments come up with ideas and someone hands them off to us to test. The veil was an experiment gone so wrong that no one is sure how to eliminate it without sucking the entire continent into a vortex."

"A comforting thought."

"Indeed."

There were many details that he didn't tell her just then: that it was the kind of work that had always fascinated him, that the possibility of a fatal accident didn't scare him—and that he wasn't afraid was worrisome—and that for the first time that he could remember, he was content. Not happy, but, then, he had never expected that. They were all details that he wouldn't need to tell her; her cleverness extended to the ability to cut through his defences—Occlumency included—and feed his emotions back to him in words that flashed a torch at his insecurities and sent them running.

That he didn't need to explain himself to her was the second thing that put him in danger—her intelligence was the first.

* * *

When she had burst into his office the Monday after the retreat, it had been moderately surprising, although not unpleasant. She tottered in on heels that looked as though they were threatening to snap, hair tied back haphazardly, setting down her paper cup of coffee and purse on a filing cabinet as she paused to catch her breath.

"I think that I've got it worked out," she said, sitting down in the chair that he reserved for Unspeakable miscreants who required discipline without waiting for an invitation.

"I didn't realise that the location of my office was so commonly known," he replied.

"It isn't, but I have my ways."

"Your ways being Evan Danielson, the Unspeakable currently assigned to the problem of refugee camps for Siberian trolls, who purchased your coffee at approximately eight-sixteen this morning?"

"Something like that," she said, and he was gratified with a giggle. "Look, I spent most of last night reading up on the theory that we discussed about using boomslang venom to counteract that of other snakes, and I think that I might have found a way to apply it."

He had been shuffling through papers at his desk, trying to find where he had scribbled down the time of his meeting with Shacklebolt, but with those words he froze. "What, in one night?"

Her cheeks turned pink and she bit her lip, looking down. "Well... yes. I was considering what you said about stabilising the unrelated compounds in the venom that would react when they came into contact with oxygen, and I thought that I try some arithmantic calculations to see if anything came up. Your idea was right, by the way—I just worked out the ingredients that would work best."

It occurred to him that even if the idea hadn't been purely hers, it didn't detract from the value of her discovery. While he had taken the theory out of the book and extrapolated, she had taken the idea and run with it with the goal of creating something useful.

"Have you tested it yet?"

Some of the uncertainty dropped out of her face as she realised that he was willing to extend the camaraderie of the weekend to the present. "I haven't had a chance yet—there's no place to keep potions equipment in my flat—but I thought that you ought to see it, as it was your idea."

She held out the sheets of paper covered in her calculations, and it only took a moment of skimming to understand their complexity—arithmancy had never been his strong suit, and he doubted that he could have kept track of the different possibilities presented by the results.

"I used some basic Muggle chemistry to check my results," she added, "so I doubt that the last two pages will make any sense to you."

He nodded, combing through the pages a second time, and raising his eyebrows at her suggested ingredients and their proportions. She caught sight of the look, and winced. "Did I miss something?"

Failing to keep the surprise out of his tone, he said, "No, not at all. It's just—the powdered bicorn horn and the acromantula web were to be expected, but I would have never worked out the scarab beetle."

Her grin caught him off guard. "I'm sure you would have eventually—the calculations are straightforward enough, you just need to make sure that you tweak the results so that the useful bits of the venom aren't being neutralised."

"Miss Granger," he said, flipping through the pages with bewilderment, "I can't even make it through the first page without feeling the delicate beginnings of a migraine. However, the chemistry calculations look as though you're right."

"But you told us in third year that a good arithmancer was necessary in developing potions."

"Which is why it was so fortunate that Septima Vector was one of the few hires that Albus Dumbledore made on the basis of merit." He lined the pages up and handed them back to her. "Lily Evans was also rather adept, which enabled me to invent spells whilst all the other students were still struggling with wand motions."

The enthusiasm on her face had lessened as he spoke, and by the time he finished, she looked thoroughly miserable. "You're not going to test them, then?"

He hadn't recalled saying anything to that effect, and he could feel the bewilderment rise up until it became visible. "Of course I am."

"But you just gave me the data—"

"Well, you'll need to be there, won't you?"

"Oh," she said, eyes widening. "Yes. I suppose that would make sense."

* * *

It had been the beginning of an unspoken partnership, in which he talked through a theory with her, she returned with applications for the theory, and they spent at least two evenings a week locked in the basement of the Department of Mysteries with a cauldron and some old cooking knives, arguing over the best way to chop up ingredients. It was to her credit as an arithmancer and his as an experienced brewer able to recognise a bad idea before it reached the work table that there were only three explosions in the first year.

The first had occurred when Hermione took it into her head that Wolfsbane would be more practical in pill form, "with small and discreet packaging—you know, like birth control." He _hadn't_ known, and the thought of what she was doing with Ronald Weasley to require contraception had infuriated him to the point that he had tossed in the shredded aconite before the fluxweed, and they had been immediately showered in—fortunately inert—liquid.

Hermione only had a week to gloat before she had created her own disaster, even if Severus inadvertently brought it about. He had been mocking her about her recently reinstated relationship with Weasley—as had rapidly become his way—and she was shooting back equally sharp remarks, chopping up Chinese Chomping Cabbage with vicious intent until she neatly sliced her baby finger. Within seconds, their taunting war had devolved into an argument over whose fault it was, and when she stood to place herself at a more equal height, some of the blood dripped into the cauldron. This time, the potion had been corrosive, but after the mishap of the previous week, they had had the foresight to don protective clothing and ward the room against any sort of damage: it wouldn't do at all for the Ministry to discover their extracurricular experiments because of a bit of carelessness on their part.

The Ministry generally didn't approve of its employees using its resources for private research projects.

The third explosion hadn't occurred until six months later, but blame wasn't so easily assigned to that one. It had started with a blazing row—which, if he were to be perfectly honest, he had started after she had broken the news of her engagement—and ended with their mouths fastened on one another's, Hermione backed up against the concrete wall. His memory was a bit fuzzy on the bits that came in between, but he felt certain that there had been some awkward fumbling, because the top of his robes was unbuttoned and her shoulder was partially exposed.

"Oh, God," she said, placing her hands out as a barrier between them. "Oh, God, I can't believe that I... I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

He took a step back and tried to calm his ragged breathing. "I know. I wasn't trying to..."

"Of course you weren't."

"No, I wasn't."

But the truth was that he _had _wanted to—still wanted to, Weasley and any sense of decency be damned. The desire curling in his stomach was joined by guilt, which seemed to wrap itself around his organs and tug until he felt nauseous. She didn't want him; she wanted Weasley, and he had to accept that. Painful as it was to see her in love with him, he knew with sudden clarity that it was worlds better than losing her altogether.

"... and I know that after, well, _that_, this is going to sound ridiculous, and you're going to hate the idea..."

"The idea of what?" he asked, trying to keep the weight of his epiphanies from his voice.

"I'd really like you to come to the wedding," she replied, glancing at him with trepidation. "I realise that most of the people who will be there think that you're dead, but... I'm going to be scared out of my mind and having you there will help, I think."

He was saved from having to answer immediately by the cauldron relieving itself of its contents.

* * *

He watched her from the other side of the room, lurking behind a glass of water as he balanced a plate of food on his lap. Molly's cooking was less satisfying than usual, although whether it was because her heart hadn't been in it or because his appetite had disappeared, he wasn't entirely certain. Watching Hermione hide behind laughter as she chatted with a colleague was painful, especially since he knew the nuances of her laugh so well; her eyes didn't normally glitter with suppressed tears, and the sound wasn't usually this harsh, as though it was being forcibly dragged from her diaphragm, catching on its way through her throat. It made his heart pound in his ears to see the colleague—whom he had met on multiple occasions, but whose name eluded him—ignoring such obvious signs. Everything in her body language screamed grief, yet there he was, discussing the speed limits of brooms as though they had met near the water cooler at work.

"She's so brave." Severus jerked in surprise, noting that Padma Patil had sat next to him when he had been lost in thought. "In her position, I'm not sure that I would have made it to the funeral."

The image of a suitcase, not fully packed, flashed across his mind briefly, but he didn't speak of it. A silent agreement had passed between him and Hermione that morning when she had seen that he had stowed her luggage out of sight.

"Even the thought of losing Greg makes me freeze up," she went on, twisting a long lock of hair absently around a finger, "but she's so..."

"Calm?" Severus suggested, poking at a potato with his fork.

"Exactly. It's obvious to anyone with eyes that she's in pain, but she's still functioning in spite of it."

"Indeed."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, observing Hermione, before Padma added, "You do realise that it's your job to look after her now, don't you? She won't let anyone else close enough."

* * *

The wedding hadn't been the grand affair that he imagined it would be. There had been a grand total of twenty-three guests, including him, virtually no ceremony, and the banquet had consisted of fruit and cheese platters served al fresco. Hermione had insisted on gradually reintroducing him to society, so that he wouldn't pop up out of nowhere at the wedding, causing the elderly guests—and perhaps Harry—to suffer from heart attacks. Molly had seemed to be in the middle of one, given that she had been forced to exclude relatives from the guest list at Hermione's behest, and wasted no time in finding his elbow so that she could hover and rant.

Her sister's cousins-in-law would never forgive her, Fleur's family had been mortified, and Severus didn't much care, because he was too busy staring at Hermione.

She had made him promise in advance that any discussion of radiant brides was strictly forbidden, as she had the feeling that she would be closer to being terrified than overjoyed, and he had sworn, half-jokingly, that the words would not cross his lips. However, he had made no such promises about his thoughts, and was allowed to think anything he liked, even if radiance was included.

And, despite all of the deliberate attempts to avoid conventionality—no white clothing, because it lent itself too easily to grass stains to be functional for an outdoor wedding; no roses, because it wouldn't do to have the groom sneezing throughout the ceremony; none of the formal vows of the Wizarding world—she was. She was dressed in light blue robes formal enough to suggest that she was taking this seriously, but no more. Oddly enough, it didn't clash with Weasley's hair, only emphasised the red and made it seem as though they had considered all of the possible ways that the day could result in horrible photographs, and then made plans to avoid them—which Severus didn't doubt had been the case.

The vows served to give him insight into why Weasley appealed to her, and, difficult as it was to admit, they did complement each other. Hermione had tried to explain how he had grown since the war ended, but he hadn't fully believed it until he heard the words coming from the man's mouth; he spoke an amusing combination of lighthearted jokes and touching remarks that nearly had Severus nodding along in agreement. There might not be sparks shooting off between them, but there was ample strong affection and partnership to tie them together—a steadiness that would keep Hermione grounded.

He swallowed once in an attempt to dislodge the lump from his throat, trying not to think of himself as Hermione began her speech.

* * *

The guests were beginning to trickle out of the Burrow, tucking their hands into their spouses' and clinging to each other with something akin to fear—a combination of sorrow and the terror of being alone. Hermione stayed to thank everyone for coming, apparently sincere, although he could sense her brittle layering start to crack when she fetched him from his corner.

"I don't think that I can handle going home right now," she said, sitting next to him and pressing her side up against his arm. Even through layers of clothing, he could tell that she was cold.

"I have a bottle of wine that I've been saving," he said. "This may sound completely inappropriate, but if you think that it might help..."

"That sounds heavenly. I think that anything will help just now." For what was barely an intake of breath, she let her mask slip and he saw the desperation that she had been hiding; it was far more powerful than he had expected.

"Will Rose and Hugo be all right alone?"

Her mouth twisted as her face smoothed over, effectively cutting him off from her thoughts. "Rose is staying with Celeste, and I told Hugo that he had my full permission to do whatever was necessary for a decent shag, even if it involves the trashiest club in London. You're stuck with me—I promise that I'll try not to be too weepy."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You're allowed to be weepy, you know. I doubt that I'll hold it against you."

"I know," she said. "I'm just not sure I know how."

* * *

They had barely made it through the first bottle of wine, when Severus opened another. "You'll need it," he said, setting it on the floor in front of them to allow it to breathe.

"I don't doubt it."

They way that she clutched the glass, gripping it as though it anchored her to the present, wasn't lost on him, just as he saw without remarking the way that she tucked her knees close to her chest defensively, as though the position would somehow keep her grief at bay. Absently, he rested a hand on her shin and rubbed it. The drinks were starting go to his head, making him drop the barriers that he had constructed around himself.

"You know what I was thinking about today?" she asked, and he made a noncommittal sound to indicate that he was listening. "The experiments we used to run. We had some brilliant ideas before we started making money off of them."

"As always seems to be the case," he said, chuckling. He momentarily wondered if she ever thought about the kiss in their makeshift laboratory, and all of the possibilities that might have spun out of it, but knew better than to ask.

"Why did we stop?"

He picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses to avoid answering immediately. "You had Rose to worry about, and that was about the time that the Department of Mysteries had come under international scrutiny."

"That's right—didn't they think that all the secrecy was unnecessary?"

"I think that the _Daily Prophet _accused us of experimenting on small children," he reminded her. "Anyway, there was a great deal of paperwork and very little time to do anything else."

"But you managed to find the time to look after Rose for me," she said. "Which Ron..."

She let her voice trail off as she stared absently into the fire, adjusting her grip on the glass. The faint scent of smoke mingled with the taste of wine on his tongue was comfortable and familiar, although he had the feeling that he should be anything but comfortable when her life had been so thoroughly uprooted.

"I'm thinking about finding something new," she said after a moment. "I realise that I've only been department head for a few years, but I'm already bored. I thought that there would be things to do and laws to change, but I've run out of ideas—really, I've been running off of the same ideas since I was eighteen, and now that I've seen them fulfilled, I don't know what to do with myself."

"What do you have in mind?" Another sip of wine. "Anything?"

"No," she said, sighing. "I applied for six months of paid leave last month, and they owled me a few days ago to let me know it had been approved. I had every intention of taking it then, but then Ron... well, you know, and I don't think I can face that much time alone with nothing to distract me."

"You're scattering the ashes tomorrow?"

She nodded, swirling her wine and keeping her face hidden behind her hair. "Charlie..." Her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and tried again. "Charlie couldn't make it back for the service, so we decided to hold off until tomorrow. I'd ask you to come, but it's going to be Harry, me, and a giant crowd of Weasleys, so I doubt that you would enjoy it."

"You're probably right."

There was another moment of silence before Hermione set down her glass and stood up, swaying slightly. "I need a glass of water. Shall I bring you one as well."

He shook his head and watched her walk towards the kitchen, feet dragging slightly, as though her exhaustion was more than she had accounted for. A moment passed without the water starting, then another, and when he was certain she wouldn't return soon, he stood to follow.

She was standing over the kitchen sink, an empty glass on the counter in front of her, and thought he couldn't see her face, he knew by the silent trembling of her shoulders that she was crying. Even as a lump formed in his own throat, he felt relief that she was finally allowing herself to grieve.

"Hermione?"

She turned to face him, wiping the tears away with her hands. "I'm all right. Sorry, I'm just..."

Her voice faltered a second time, taken over by a hiccoughing sob that flung her upper body forward and forced her to double over. A fresh flood of tears followed, and he pulled her into his arms, willing to wait as long as necessary for the fit to subside.

"You're allowed to cry," he whispered as she half-wailed an apology into his shoulder. He would have to wash the shirt before wearing it again, but that was hardly the point.

When it became clear that they would be there for a while, he guided her down until they were sitting against the cabinets, Hermione tucked under his arm as she sucked in huge gulps of air in an attempt to calm herself. When the sobs finally stopped, she hung limply in his arms, head resting against his sodden shoulder.

* * *

She awoke to find herself firmly tucked into a bed that wasn't hers, the smell of frying eggs and sausage hovering in the air, teasing her into full consciousness. It took another moment to realise that this was Severus' room and that she was still dressed—with that came the knowledge that Ron was dead. It hurt a little less than it had the previous morning, but it was still the painful twist of a knife in her chest. A pain that her senses were numbing themselves to, but a pain nonetheless.

It should hurt, she thought, burrowing down into the warmth. But in time it would fade to little less than a twinge, the way that the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse could be a little stiffness in the joints years after the fact. She had learned to live with that kind of pain, and she could live with this as well. The funeral had been the hardest part—the first step in a long process—and, though she knew that scattering the ashes wouldn't be easy, it would give her the closure that listening to eulogies couldn't.

She wouldn't be able to say that Ron would have wanted his remains to be blown along the beach at the seaside resort where they had holidayed nearly every summer for the last fifteen years, because they had never discussed funeral plans, but it was the first thing that had sprung to mind, and she knew that she would find it comforting—which, she suspected, was the most important thing. Ron was gone; she had to take what comfort that she could.

Another minute passed before the smell of impending breakfast drove her from bed, stretching as she wandered out into the hall, then to the kitchen, where Severus was flipping eggs out of the pan and onto a plate.

"Good morning," she said. "Please tell me that I get some of those, because I just realised that I hardly ate anything yesterday and I'm absolutely famished."

"You slept well, then?" He passed the plate to her, then went in search of cutlery.

"I did, although I am terribly sorry about last night. I think I ruined your shirt."

"Nothing that a judiciously applied charm won't remove," he said, shrugging and sliding a fork across the table to her.

"I've decided to take the leave," she said, accepting it and using it to tear her sausage apart in a rabid quest of hunger. "Just now. Life is too short not to, and I might find something that catches my fancy more than running a department. And if I don't, at least I'll have time to enjoy myself—life is far too short not to."

The light streaming through the window caught his face in a new way—or maybe it was the way that the quirk of his lips, slight as it might be, reached his eyes—and something slid into place. The way that he looked at her—had looked at her for the past thirty years, with mingled hope and resignation—made sense for the first time, and it was as though she could see through his enigmatic layers for the first time. He drew back, as though sensing what she was able to see and wanting to hide, then took half a step forward so that she could examine him more closely.

A hesitant smile spread carefully across her face, although her eyes were still as wide and sad as ever. She reached her hand across the table, curling it gently around his fingers and squeezing once, a gesture meant to reassure him. She wasn't quite ready to act on what she saw—she wouldn't be for a long time—but she could recognise it and let him know that perhaps, one day, after the mourning had stopped and the last of the ashes lost themselves in the ocean, she would be ready.

"Thank you," she whispered.


End file.
